could remember was ‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’ which was, I devoutly hoped, inappropriate. I bowed my head and concentrated on breathing.
It took over twenty minutes to get through that half mile. I knew better than to look up, even when the car stopped and I felt rather than saw a man right next to me. After a moment, during which I didn’t breathe at all, and a brief exchange in Arabic, the Land Rover began to move.
Feisal went on for another ten or fifteen miles and then pulled off the road. Turning, his arm over the back of the seat, he gave me a strained smile and said hoarsely, ‘How about something to drink?’
I fumbled in the basket at my feet and got out a bottle of soda.
‘If we have to do that again I am going to die,’ I informed him.
Feisal drained the bottle and tossed it out. ‘They’re still looking for the jeep, I think. They didn’t even ask for my papers. If they don’t find out we’ve changed vehicles we should be all right. Relax and enjoy the scenery.’
‘Ha,’ I said.
One of these years I hope to travel that road again when I’m in a proper state of mind to appreciate the view. That day I wouldn’t have noticed the Great Pyramid of Giza unless it had been in the middle of the road. Feisal drove like a man fleeing justice, but then so did everybody else. I had to hold my voluminous garments with both hands to keep them from flapping in the breeze from the open windows. He was in front, I was in back; there was no possibility of conversation, so I clung to my veils and closed my eyes. Twice we were slowed to a crawl by construction, three times by accidents. All three appeared to be minor; what blocked the road were the crowds of gesticulating debaters discussing the incident.
I hadn’t slept much the previous night. When I awoke after a nap I hadn’t meant to take we were on a wide street lined with shops and teeming with traffic. Straight ahead two slender, delicately carved towers rose into the sky.
I leaned forward and poked Feisal. ‘Where are we? Is that a mosque up ahead?’
‘No. It’s one of the city gates. Dates from the eleventh century. I took a roundabout route.’ His voice cracked. ‘We made it. Praise be to God, we made it!’
‘Praise be to God,’ I agreed heartily. ‘What time is it?’
‘Half past twelve. Do you want something to eat?’
‘I want to get out of this tent,’ I grumbled. ‘I want a shower and a drink with ice in it and a change of clothes. But I’ll settle for being here in one piece.’
‘You may as well divest yourself of that ensemble if you can do it gracefully and inconspicuously,’ Feisal said. ‘You’ll be no more noticeable in Western clothes now. I’ll find a cafe and we’ll have a bite while we discuss our next move.’
I was too stupefied by heat, drowsiness, and disbelief to argue, but by the time he stopped and I had – inconspicuously, I hoped – removed my tent and veil, I had had second thoughts. We were in the heart of the city by then and there were a number of young people around, including some foreigners. I cleverly deduced that Feisal had picked a spot in the university area.
‘We shouldn’t take time for this,’ I objected, as he helped me out. ‘I need to make that call to Karl Feder.’
‘Munich is in an earlier time zone, isn’t it? He’s probably out to lunch.’ Feisal led me through a doorway curtained with strings of beads and found a table. The place was hot and dark and noisy and full of flies; people were talking in a mixture of languages, and a radio was blaring Egyptian pop music in the background. ‘What do you want to eat?’
‘I don’t care. Anything. Something with ice in it.’
‘No ice, not here. It’s made of the local water.’
He ordered in Arabic. Then he said, ‘I’m going to telephone my father.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘My mother will be out of her mind,’ Feisal said simply. ‘I have to let her know that I’m safe and innocent of the charges.’
If he had presented any other argument I might have disagreed, but that one hit me where I lived. I knew what it was like to wait hour after hour and day after day for news of someone’s fate, fearing the worst. Boy, did I know.
‘Come to think of it, my mother is probably not very happy either,’ I said guiltily. ‘Does the whole world know I’ve been abducted?’
‘Count on it,’ Feisal said’ grimacing.
‘Yeah. It’s the kind of story reporters love. Damn! My dad’s probably on his way to Cairo right now. Well, they’ll have to wait a few more hours, I can’t put through an international call from a public phone.’
The food arrived – chunks of meat and pieces of pepper and onion, on little wooden skewers.
‘It won’t take long,’ Feisal said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
It was two o’clock. Three more hours to wait. At least three. If they weren’t there at 5 p.m. . . . I tried not to think about it.
When Feisal came back he was smiling. I hadn’t realized how tired and old he had looked until I saw that smile.
‘It’s all right,’ he announced, settling into his chair. ‘He wants us to meet him.’
‘Your father?’
‘He started out ordering me to turn myself in. But when I explained, told him you were with me and that you’d confirm my story, he said he’d be willing to listen.’
‘Danm nice of him. Look, Feisal, I’m not sure – ’
‘It’s okay, I tell you. A friend of his is away on business, Father has the key to his apartment, which is not far from the train station. We can hole up there, use his telephone to call Munich and your parents and, if you like, the Embassy. That’s much safer than the central telegraph office. You can have that shower and maybe even a drink with ice in it.’
‘Where does he want us to meet him?’ I asked doubtfully.
‘Ezbekiya Gardens. It’s not far from his office. He didn’t want us to go there or to the house.’
‘The police have probably got both places staked out.’
‘He hinted as much. Have you finished?’
I sat in front with Feisal this time. He was in a very happy mood, relaxed and smiling. He kept pointing out sights – mosques and museums and parks. The traffic was horrendous and parking seemed to be hit or miss. I wouldn’t have considered the place where Feisal stopped, in between a barrow piled with cauliflower and a little old lady who had apparently set up housekeeping on the kerb, as a legitimate spot, but he waved my comments aside.
‘God willing we won’t be coming back to the damned car anyhow. We’ve got a couple of blocks to walk.’
‘Okay.’
‘Vicky.’
‘What?’
‘Just in case . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sure it’s all right. But stay a couple of hundred feet behind me. I’ll talk to him, get the key to the apartment. Wait till I wave or call to you before you join us.’
He didn’t give me a chance to reply. He started walking.
I followed, close enough to keep him in sight, but no closer. What he had suggested was only a sensible precaution; his father might be under surveillance and unable to shake it.
Crossing Cairo streets is a death-defying procedure. The street on the west side of Ezbekiya Gardens is a wide, very busy thoroughfare, and I lost sight of Feisal for a few seconds while I tried to avoid being run down by taxis, buses, and trucks. Reaching the other side breathless but intact, I caught sight of him standing by a little kiosk. The gardens were large; they must have arranged to meet at that precise spot. Hanging back, per instructions, I saw a tall grey-haired man approach Feisal. He was wearing Western clothes, and even at that distance I noted the resemblance. They stood talking for a while; then the older man threw his arms around Feisal.
Any father might embrace a returning prodigal son, and Middle Eastern males have no hang-ups about expressing affection physically. Not until I saw the crowds disperse, like hens when a fox enters the chicken yard, did I realize what was happening. Feisal saw the foxes too. They were hard to miss – four of them, carrying
